Threescore & Tequila (Toil & Trouble Book 4)

  Threescore & Tequila

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  © 2017 Heather R. Blair

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book is for Kaitlynn.

  It may seem odd to dedicate such an adult book to a child, especially one I never met. Kaitlynn was the daughter of AshleyJo, a reviewer on Goodreads. My first contact with Ashley was when she messaged me a few chapters into Sixpence & Whiskey. The message title was Holy bat balls, Superman! Ashley loved Sixpence and she is a large part of the reason this series got noticed. I can’t thank her enough for her advice, support and kindness.

  A few weeks later, Kaitlynn died unexpectedly just shy of her twelfth birthday. When I heard the news, it hit me hard. The thought of losing a child is every parent’s worst nightmare, the thing that makes us shaky and cold inside.

  Grief does that. It makes us feel helpless, but we’re not fucking helpless. There are parents out there right NOW with disabled or chronically ill children who fight a daily battle most of us will never know. I can’t give Kaitlynn back to Ashley, but I can help someone in the same situation breathe a little easier. So can you.

  In fact, you are right now.

  Because fifty percent of the sales of each and every copy of Threescore & Tequila are going to The M.O.R.G.A.N. Project. You can see who they are and what they do here: http://themorganproject.org/about/ (Thanks to Krystal J. for pointing me in their direction.)

  So to Kaitlynn and her mom, and their love of stories, snark and laughing, this one is all for you. <3

  How many miles to Babylon?

  Threescore and ten

  Can I get there by candlelight?

  Yes, and back again.

  If your heels are nimble and light,

  You may get there by candlelight.

  1

  I don’t play well with others.

  I never have, and I never will. Usually I think of that as a gift. Today it’s more of a pain in the ass.

  “Look, Merry, I said I was sorry.”

  The gnome snorts and gives me a baleful look over his glass of whiskey.

  “If my fucking sister can forgive me, why can’t you?”

  Both of us glance at the end of the bar where Seph is busy slinging drinks. Her wavy blond hair is gleaming, that streak of pink swaying to the beat of what sounds like a Rihanna song as she chats up a customer drinking Grey Goose straight from the bottle. I wince. Vodka is disgusting. Of course, I may have some prejudice there.

  Toil & Trouble is hopping tonight. I don’t know how my sister explained coming back from the dead to her coworkers and friends, let alone the people down at the vital records office, but I’m betting it required a lot of bullshit and magic. However she did it, her reopening night is shaping up to be a smashing success.

  My attention is brought back to the gnome when he snorts again. “Look, Jett, I ain’t Seph. You lied to me, threatened my people and forced me to work a bit of magic that got a friend killed.”

  “He came back to life!”

  “That’s beside the point. You’re one cold bitch, Jett Gosse.” Without a backward glance the gnome hops off the barstool and disappears into the crowd. I don’t bother chasing after him. Stubborn doesn’t begin to cover a gnome with a grudge. Damn earth elementals. It’s like arguing with a mountain. A miniature one.

  Not that I don’t deserve his anger. I’m guilty of everything Merry said and more.

  With a sigh, I drain my drink, catch my sister’s eye and nod at the hallway. She shrugs, then frowns as she catches the guy she’s serving taking the opportunity to look down her shirt. There’s a loud crack as her hand catches him upside the head. “Mind your business or get the hell out of mine.”

  With a sheepish smile, the guy takes his drink and heads for a table with his buddies.

  I smirk as I get to my feet. He’s lucky he only got smacked. If my sister’s soon-to-be husband saw that shit, that loser would’ve found his nether regions frozen solid and his ass in the lake. You don’t mess with Jack Frost’s woman and come out unscathed.

  Not that Seph can’t take care of her own self. With the powers she’s sporting now and all the shit that went down last month, my baby sister is one of the most feared creatures in the FTC world. Nobody wants to mess with the witch that came back from the dead.

  Or have anything to do with the sister that killed her in the first place.

  I close my eyes for a second in the dim hallway, the noise from the bar slightly muffled here. I did what I did for all the right reasons and everything turned out copacetic, but that doesn’t mean Jack.

  Not to my baby sister’s other half, a certain gnome or one newly crowned bruin.

  I stomp the rest of the way to my shop. Bad Reputation sits in the same building as my sister’s bar. There is a separate entrance, but they’re also connected by a hallway that winds past my sister’s office and out into a bigger, brighter hallway of tiled mosaic. The frosted glass door is ajar. A shadow looms behind it.

  Instantly, my senses go on high alert. I’ve been poking around in more dangerous places than usual lately. Maybe something followed me back from one of them.

  I may be harder to track than your average witch, but I’m not stupid enough to take anything for granted. Slipping my sword silently from its sheath at my back, I reach out and prod the door further open with my foot. Since I oil the hinges every month, the hiss is softer than a dryad’s whisper, but the man in my doorway hears it and turns. Blue eyes lock on mine. Shock has me letting the sword tip fall.

  “Stephen?” I haven’t seen him since that night at the Den. I figured if he’d wanted to hear my side of things, he’d have come around. He didn’t come around. Not once. “Why are you here?”

  My voice is shaking. It pisses me off, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Part of being good with a sword is knowing and accepting your weaknesses. Only then can you learn to compensate for them. Stephen has been my biggest weakness for months now. I’m still working on the compensating part.

  He stands there as I sheathe the sword, looking bigger than I remember. He also looks tired, pissed and impatient, three things that don’t come naturally to this bruin. It’s probably all my fault.

  Everything is these days.

  “I’m only here so you can finish my tat,” he growls finally. “The gods know, I paid enough for it.”

  Without waiting for me to say anything, he stalks to my station and sits down. Those blue eyes dare me to acknowledge the elephant in the room. The one strutting between us with all the smug satisfaction of Hannibal descending into Italy.

  I bet he expects me to apologize. To grovel.

  He should know by now I am not made that way.

&nbs
p; With a shrug, I gather my gear. There’s only a slight bit of shading left to do. I can do this. I can touch him again. An hour, tops, and he’ll be out of here. How much can it hurt, really?

  He folds his arms, his dark jaw locked as I approach.

  Stephen isn’t like other bears, but he still wears that shifter arrogance like a mantle, that body confidence that says I can lay your shit out or fuck you all night long. Right now, he’s sporting more of the former than the latter.

  It didn’t used to be that way.

  2

  Last November

  “No bruins allowed.”

  It’s the first thing that pops out of my mouth when I see the shadow in Bad Reputation’s doorway. I recognize this bear. I took him out a couple nights ago with a nifty concealment spell and a sword hilt to the back of the head. Not exactly sporting, but it was three to one. And his king was trying to kidnap my baby sister.

  “I don’t see a sign.” He lifts a thick eyebrow in challenge.

  Rolling my eyes, I whisper a bit of rhyme and flick a finger at the doorknob.

  A plaque appears, crackled paint on wood, hanging from a long black ribbon. No fur, No fangs, No paws is carved in curly, Ye Olde English script. I’m especially proud of the sketch at the bottom, the one that looks like Winnie-the-Pooh in a bloody red circle with a slash through it.

  A wry smile turns up the corners of those firm lips as he sends the sign swinging with a fingertip. “Not a paw or fang in sight. See?” He lifts his arms and gives me a fairly graceful pirouette, coming to a stop with a grin.

  My own lips twitch before I catch myself.

  “You’re forgetting fur.”

  He rubs his chin ruefully. “Come on now, beards don’t count.”

  “Oh, for Chrissake, what do you want?” You’d think he’d had enough of witches. Men. They never learn their lesson the first time around. Especially bears. Even smart-assed ones. I fold my arms over my chest. “Besides to run your sauce-box again, like you did to my sister?”

  He blinks at me. “Come again?”

  Like Ana, pieces of my formative years occasionally slip out. Though unlike her, I’ve put considerable effort into shedding my past. “Your bit of mouthing off.”

  Seph was more than a little gleeful when she repeated his message to me the other day. If this asshole thinks he’ll ever take me from behind, in any way, shape or form, he’s not just delusional, he’s suicidal.

  “That wasn’t mouthing off, it was a promise.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, that was a boy whining because a girl took him down.”

  He looks me up and down, then up again, his gaze like being licked by fire. “Funny, I don’t see any girls here, just one badass woman.” His smile widens as I blink. “That doesn’t mean I won’t get even. I’m a patient man.”

  We’ll see about that. But damn if he doesn’t have me wondering what his idea of ‘getting even’ might include.

  I put one hand on my hip, yanking my mind away from the possibilities. “What the hell do you want? I’m working here.”

  He looks pointedly at the empty shop. I’m a kick-ass tattoo artist but a shitty shop owner. I keep odd, inconsistent hours, I don’t advertise, and I don’t maintain any kind of online presence. All of which means I make about enough on this place to pay my share of the rent and keep myself in boots.

  That’s fine by me. Bad Reputation is more of a stress reliever than a job. It’s not as if it’s my sole source of income either.

  “I could just throw your ass out.”

  He lifts his hands. “Actually, I’m feeling the need for some new ink.”

  “Imagine that.” I sigh. Predictable. Tattoos as pick-up lines are nothing new to me, and hey, it pays the bills. Besides, sometimes the best way to foil a man—or a bruin—isn’t to challenge him, but to give in.

  Or pretend to.

  “Fine, but I’ll be charging you double.” I wave at my station. There’s only three in the place because I’m particular about who I rent space to. Only one other gunner has worked here regularly in the past year and Dana never comes in on Fridays. “What do you need?”

  Without a word, he takes off his shirt. Being female, straight and breathing, I look. And suck in a slow, careful breath. I see half-naked people on a daily basis. Sometimes that’s good, sometimes it’s really not. Tits, ass and every dangly bit known to man. Nothing scares me and nothing impresses me.

  Until today.

  Carved perfection doesn’t begin to describe this bruin. No slick, pretty muscles gained in some gleaming gym here. Stephen is raw, unbridled power. His massive shoulders are three times the width of mine and one of his arms would make two of my thighs. His chest is deep and wide, narrowing to abs that look chiseled from granite. Pale, honey-colored granite, his skin warm with the perpetual tan of a shifter, smooth and rich in the few places where it’s not sporting ink or scars. He has several tats, but the most eye-catching are the salmon leaping up both sides of his ribs, their scales done up in some of the most gorgeous shading I’ve ever seen.

  My eyes follow the smattering of black hair over his muscular chest until it narrows to a thin, dark line over the ridges of his abs before darting under faded-white-at-the-seam jeans that cling to lean hips. I’ve never been a fan of men who over groom or over dress. Men should look like men without looking like, well . . . bears.

  Those worn jeans ride low, giving me a hint of a deep, delicious V. My mind is already judging the shape of him under his jeans, conjuring all sorts of images, each one more tantalizing than the last.

  I’ve always liked my men big, tough and utterly masculine. Probably why I used to have a thing for bruins. Emphasis on used to.

  I lift my eyes back to his face, trying to lock down my body’s visceral response to all that exposed flesh. But then there are those eyes. Such a bright blue, I’d swear they were photoshopped, but he’s right here, in living color.

  Stephen Krueger ticks every goddamn box I have.

  I’d definitely do him. If he weren’t a bear. I lean over to grab my sketch pad, willing my fingers not to shake. They don’t, but he’s not fooled.

  “Thought you were gonna swoon there for a minute, witchy woman.” The words are soft, tickling my spine, as he tosses his shirt over the chair.

  I bite out a laugh, turning to a clean page as I resist the urge to press my thighs together. “You want that kind of reaction, you best head next door. The college girls will be arriving soon. You might get lucky.” Might? Stephen would be crushed in a stampede of ovaries.

  “I’m not interested in college girls.”

  “You prefer women who can kick your ass?” I glance at him over the pad, raising my eyebrows. “I get it, bruin, but I’m not into the whole dominatrix thing.”

  He smiles, a slow, deadly smile that has my hormones tripping over themselves. “Thanks for the visual. But when we get there—and we will get there—we’ll see who’s begging who.”

  “Is it difficult, rolling out of bed every day with that monstrous ego?”

  “Ego’s got nothing to do with it. I know when I’m wanted.” He taps his nose, a satisfied curve to his lips. “You are pretty good at locking your emotions down tight, but even you can’t control pheromones, honey.”

  Shit. I think I’m blushing. And I don’t blush.

  “It’s nothing personal, bruin,” I snap. “I just need to get laid.”

  “Uh-huh.” Those blue eyes find mine and hold. “I think we both know it’s more than that.”

  A shiver works its way down my spine.

  “What does that even mean?”

  He shrugs. “We’ll talk about it. Eventually. In bed. I’m thinking silk sheets and a whole pile of rose petals.”

  I snort. “Nice try, but I’m not really the romantic type.”

  He cocks his head, studying me. “That’s okay. I am.”

  “You’re awfully confident for being part of a species I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.”

 
“Racist much?”

  “It’s called brutal honesty.”

  “Honesty would be admitting you’ve been wondering how I’d feel inside you since the moment I walked through that door.”

  I grind my teeth together, ignoring the hard pulse of want his words send straight between my legs.

  “That’s it, furface. Watch your mouth or get your ink elsewhere.”

  He lifts his hands again, watching me arrange my supplies.

  “What’s your problem with my kind anyway?” he continues after a beat, looking curious.

  It shocks me how casually he puts it out there. I’ve grown used to people treating me like a rabid dog who might go full-on Cujo at any second. Nobody asks me personal shit anymore, even my family. And that’s the way I like it. “In case you haven’t heard, I’m not the sharing type. Shut up and lean back.”

  “Anything you say.” Lazily, he stretches back into the leather. Goddamn it, the son of a bitch smells fantastic, too. Like rain and sunshine all mixed up.

  His lips twitch again and I want to smack that knowing grin right off his face. I’ve never felt the need for a vibrator in my life. I want to get laid, I go get laid. It’s not like it’s hard to find a willing guy, but I haven’t been in the mood for a long time.

  I’m sure as hell in the mood now. If I didn’t know bruins were basically magic-less, I would swear he’d cast some sort of spell on me. Foot of newt, eye of horny toad.

  “Where?” I growl through gritted teeth.

  He taps his left pec, right over his heart. I eye his skin, mapping the muscles underneath with a practiced eye.

  “What are we doing then?”

  “Just words.” He pulls a bit of paper from his jeans pocket and hands it to me.

  I frown at the elegant script. If this is his handwriting, it’s light years better than mine, despite my Victorian education. “I can’t read German. This is German, right?”

  “Ja.” He grins at me. “Do you need to understand it to ink it?”